Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1887-04-07

ror. do yos write. too! Is is novels. or
poetry. or what ?"
Novels! Not 1! mean writing-pen
and ink-what do-you.call-'em - CALI
+, graphy." 80, -
afraid you might have been poet.
thought you were, do you know, the hrst
night met you?"
9Did you ?" said Bill. He stopped, and
put his back against tree, to realize it.
:.Wait bit, please. These skates are
come undone and want to fasten them up
together, tight" She stopped. and came
over to superintend the process. IL
sometimes wish was bit OF poet. do
you know?'
"You do Why?"
"Well. it's this way" said Bill. slowly.
He had dropped down on one knee, and
was fastening up the skates, not looking
up. Suppose wanted to say something
to somebody-and didn't exactly know
how to begin"
"Yes; can suppose it," she said de-
murely.
Suppose | was in love for instance
he was very intent on the buckling of that
one strap-'.and suppose | wanted to tell
the girl loved what thought about her,
and that didn't quite see how to START
it was a very troublesome strap tor such a
small thing-"and suppose that-that
there was"
81 should think" said Miss Norburv,
in a very small voice, THAT if you were
YOU would know what to do"
He looked up. She was standing close
to him, her face turned away. One small
hand hung down close to him.
81 think" he said, II should begin by
taking her hand. And then" He took
he little fur-gloved paw tenderly. and
pulled her gently round until he could
look into her eyes. 1t was not so dusk in
the January twilight but that he could in e.
terpret what they said. There was not
much need of words.
That night the poet, sitting before his
fire and musing upon things in general.
was reused from meditation by knock at
his door. Bill Rafter entered and shook
hands in silence
well, Bill any news?" said the poet
when he was seated.
well" said Bill slowly and even with
more than usual hesitancv. there is ~
Spin it out then while you fill your
pipe"
But Bill was silent. There was Ger.
tain awkward shame facedness about him
that the poet could not help noticing go
on. Tell u.s. he said.
"It's about" said Bill, with an effort
w''about Miss Norbury'
Nothing happened to her, is there?"
mo, no. At least-yes. Not any
harm. you know. At least l hope not. It's
about Miss Norbury. you see-and me- ~
And you?"
we're-' SAID Bill, with a deprecatory
sort of smile-''we'ree engaged"
Good God!' said the poet. "You!"
"Yes. Me. hope, Johnny, you don t
think it's mean of me, or anything that
wav. But, you know. was in love with
her too. and when you told me she had
refused you-why-"
"Ot course You were right. 1t was
nothing to me. hope you'll be happy.
old fellow said the poet. He was rath-
err confused and spoke in an absent mind
ed way.
"Well, that's ALL" said Bill. 81 thil k
III clear out now. just came in to tell
you" They shook bands, and the DO, t
was again left alone.
He drew his chair up to the fire, and
thought over it all twas a sharp lesson
and for some time he smarted sorely un-
der the chastsement. thinking many bit
ter things of Life and Love and Woman
all with capital letters. For hours he sat
there, striving to pierce through the mist
of doubt that encompasSed him. and to
see wherein vas the weakness of what he
had fancied strength. and the strength of
what he had counted for weakness. 1t
may have been to gather more light for
his search that he rose from his seat when
dawn was near, and, taking many tossed
manuscripts from drawer, flung them
into the fire and watched them blaze and
flicker and fade awav into charred ashes.
As the last breath off1ame died he stamped
the ashes into dust, mutering: Here
lie the mortal remains of John Anthony
McArdle, poet" Then, turning away
he lit a bedroom candle and went out
Beiqracia.